Exes and O's: The next swoon-worthy rom-com from romance sensation Amy Lea

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Just as things are heating up with Alex, Gwen meets her newest patient -- a precocious preschooler whose chaotic soap opera-actress of a mother, Harmony, sounds an awful lot like one of Alex's crazy ex-girlfriends. Mostly because she is one of Alex's crazy ex-girlfriends. Unfortunately for Gwen, Harmony has a secret that plunges them all into a real-life daytime drama, complete with sex, lies, and Vegas elopements. With Harmony determined to reunite with Alex and Gwen's ex-fiancé begging for a second chance, only one thing is certain: Well...what do you do with your time when you're not playing hooky on Friday afternoons or stewarding the clinic?"

Exs And Ohs Chord Chart — Lauren Bateman Guitar Exs And Ohs Chord Chart — Lauren Bateman Guitar

So I had just started seeing this guy, and on our second or third date, he invited me to be his guest at a family wedding. Being young and free and a bit commitment-shy, I was about to decline until he casually mentioned that the bride was a successful romance novelist. Well, the second I heard that, I had to go. Being a writer had always been my dream job, and I’d never met anyone who’d actually beaten the odds and made the leap into big-time publishing. So I RSVP-ed, sidled up to the bar at the reception, waited until the bride and all her author friends uncorked the good champagne, and then peppered them with endless questions about writing, editing, and landing an agent. They were so funny and encouraging and generous with their time and advice. (And drunk!) Next thing you know, I had joined a critique group and was knee-deep in the manuscript that would eventually become MY FAVORITE MISTAKE. The open bar at that wedding changed my life forever. The two of us huddled together. The passersby on the other side of the plate glass must have thought we were planning a heist. It is very ridiculous, but it’s like a perfect book for a tired mind. I kind of like the main character, she sorta reminded me of myself. I never had to cancel a wedding or anything, but something about her just makes me think of myself. Maybe that isn’t a good thing, but oh well, these are my thoughts for better or for worse.

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Swear to God, Gwen, if a guy ever did that to me I would cut off his penis. And then FedEx it to his new girlfriend." That's what Cesca had said, and she had a point. Part of me knew that he didn't even deserve my chilly courtesy -- that what he in fact deserved was to have his nether regions severed, sealed, and delivered -- but another part of me was still holding on to what we'd had: the sunny Sunday mornings brunching at Gladstone's while watching the tide roll in. The postsex, late-evening showers we took together, dueting "Summer Lovin'" at the top of our lungs. The safe, even spaces between his breaths when he slept.

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Oh yeah? What fancy degrees do you have slapped up on your wall?" I sized him up and took a guess. "M.B.A.?" It was not good. We gaped at each other, both of us mute and rooted to the sun-bleached concrete. His gaze slid away from mine, so I focused on the small blue name tag pinned to his white coat: DR. D. SCHELL. We were standing, fittingly, in The Bomb Shelter, which is the café adjacent to the med school. What's her medium? Pop Secret? Redenbacher? Does she have a corporate sponsor?" His laughter was contagious.How do you know I'm not some nice anthropologist who just happened to wander into the medical plaza?" I nodded at his left hand, which, although tan and sprinkled with thin dark hair, remained ringless. "Still not married?" This is the part where I’m supposed to brag about all my illustrious accomplishments, but honestly, I’d rather talk about my dogs and brag about some of the things I haven’t done:

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He paused for a second. "I just came from a meeting with him myself, so if you'd like, I could call and tell him you're showing me around the campus. We could go grab a cup of coffee." Technically, yes, but stewarding...it makes me sound like I smoke a pipe and wear an ascot and I've got one foot in the grave. I'm only thirty-five."

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I nodded at his wrist. "Anthropologists don't wear Patek Philippe watches. And all that brushed twill -- it's a dead giveaway."

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Since the night of my (unnecessary, as it turned out) rehearsal dinner, I had turned into the kind of woman who commits phonicide and willfully creates road hazards just because she sees a glowing, happy couple who apparently registered at Good Karma, Inc. Letting good looks get in the way of good judgment. I kept telling myself that a woman that beautiful had to have some redeeming qualities." He was still communing with his coffee mug. "I saw what I wanted to see, instead of who she really was."What a girl did not need was to discover that she had forgotten to recharge her cell phone last night, and consequently had no battery power left. A few well-placed patrons and she might be able to move on to her pasta period and take the L.A. art world by storm."